I've bumped into at least three people in town who all insist 'Winter's Bone' is about them.

Pine trees with low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.

I felt like a number of things in me as a writer just clicked.

He unscrewed the lid, set it on the dash, snorted from the bottle twice, banged the steering wheel, and said, 'You got to be ready to die every day - then you got a chance.'

I said shut up once already, with my mouth.

There's an overlap between social-realist fiction and crime fiction - a sweet spot there.

I didn't really expect to be coming to the Oscars.